


Pomegranate Seed

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Grantaire takes a breath to steady himself and lowers his gaze. “Nothing you say shames me, Courfeyrac,” he admits, though he still feels the warmth flush to his cheeks. “I’m fully aware of my intentions. You need not follow the Devil to Hell – and should you make a wrong turn and do so anyhow, I’m not feeding you a pomegranate seed. If anything, I’m the one who’s been trapped by your righteous, foolish endeavors.” </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Courfeyrac loses his temper. Grantaire has already given up his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomegranate Seed

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little fic written ages ago for my lovely friend Leah's birthday and, for some reason, I never posted it on AO3. I really wanted to display the hot-headed Courfeyrac we know from Hugo, and I'm always in the mood for Grantaire and Classical references, so... here it is. Enjoy!

Courfeyrac is holding onto his wrist so tightly that Grantaire is sure it will bruise.

“Come with me and, for once, be quiet,” he orders softly but seriously, his eyes blazing with fiery fury. Grantaire stumbles along, an argument tickling his tongue. Yet when Courfeyrac twists to glare, the words trickle away like sand in a sieve. Courfeyrac leads him out of the Corinth and into a nearby alleyway without another word.  
Grantaire has seen Courfeyrac’s temper countless times in debate, in conversation, in chance encounters with strangers, and somehow, he’s never had it directed at him before. Pamphlets have been thrown in the fire, glasses knocked to their sides – once the man even stormed out of the Musain in a fit of anger that nobody can remember the cause for. If anything, Courfeyrac is conspicuous, so Grantaire can’t imagine why he would be taken away from the crowd.

It becomes no clearer when his back hits the filthy wall, Courfeyrac’s hands tightening around his shoulders to keep him in place, his gaze filled with rage.

“Must you antagonize everyone?” he hisses, his face so close that Grantaire can feel the heat of his breath. He’s sure Courfeyrac can smell the wine on his own.

Grantaire tries to shift away, but there’s nowhere to go. He doesn’t have a response, either – nothing that would appease him, at least. His legs are shaking, his entire body tingling as if lightening had just been shot through his veins. Yes, he must, he wants to say. If he doesn’t fight them with words, someone will surely fight them with guns.

Courfeyrac continues, nearly snarling. “Is it because you find yourself so miserable that you can only think to make the rest of us feel the same? Just because you find no hope in the world doesn’t mean you must drag us all into your wretched pit of misery. Just because you only find comfort in drink doesn’t mean we must be the same, Grantaire!”

He lets go suddenly and Grantaire nearly drops to the ground, his limbs unable to support his weight anymore. Courfeyrac’s temper seems to have subsided, his volume lowering and his eyes becoming more gentle and light, though Grantaire can still read the anger behind them.

Grantaire takes a breath to steady himself and lowers his gaze. “Nothing you say shames me, Courfeyrac,” he admits, though he still feels the warmth flush to his cheeks. “I’m fully aware of my intentions. You need not follow the Devil to Hell – and should you make a wrong turn and do so anyhow, I’m not feeding you a pomegranate seed. If anything, I’m the one who’s been trapped by your righteous, foolish endeavors.”

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment, his lips puckered and forehead wrinkled with pensive thought. Grantaire watches him warily, trying to commit the sight to memory – the soft roundness of his cheeks, the unruly curls crushed beneath his hat, the wide brown eyes that can never hide a single thought.

“You are aware,” he says when he finally speaks, “that this is no way to win Enjolras’s attention, correct? Being a nuisance will only anger and upset him. And,” he adds, almost hesitant. “I do not appreciate it when someone makes my friends angry and upset.”

Grantaire licks his lips, wiping away the lingering taste of alcohol. “I am not looking to win Enjolras’s attention,” he admits, though he longs for it so much that his heart still aches even after all this time. He gave up years ago, gave up that hope and stashed it away with all the others, and yet it bangs inside his head, begging to be let free. Distractions help – distractions and the bottom of the bottle and sometimes, just sometimes, the touch of another if he’s lucky enough to receive it.

Courfeyrac knows this better than any other, a second strike from Cupid, perhaps even stronger than the first, all golden-bathed and unattainable. No, Courfeyrac is not that – Courfeyrac is here and present among the filth, among Grantaire’s company.

Their mouths meet in a chaste kiss, Courfeyrac leaning over and pressing Grantaire against the bricks again with his weight. Grantaire places his hands on Courfeyrac’s hips, bunching the waistcoat in his fists and tugging hard until their bodies are flush and the kiss deepens. Courfeyrac’s hat slips from his head into a puddle; Grantaire had left his in the café. They break apart to giggle and roll their eyes at the third lost hat that week, the tension fully shattered like the wine glass Grantaire had thrown only fifteen minutes before.

“Do try to behave when we go back,” Courfeyrac pleads, resting his chin on Grantaire's shoulder as he stares mournfully at his ruined hat.

Grantaire sighs and runs his fingers through Courfeyrac’s freed curls, grinning at them with a bitter quirk in his lips. “I make no promises. I’m never able to keep them.” Even to himself, he’s never kept to an oath.

After all, he once swore he’d never fall in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Feedback is wonderful, I thrive on it.
> 
> You can find me (and possibly some of my writing!) on Tumblr at theirdarkreturning.


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